


Notes II

by Taverl



Series: Notes [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, POV First Person, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taverl/pseuds/Taverl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder makes a decision and Scully must deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes II

**Author's Note:**

> Written and first posted way back in 1999. Set in 2010, Mulder and Scully have been married for over 10 years.
> 
> WARNING: This is a capital-A angst piece. Please pay close attention to the tags.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The X-Files, it's characters and situations are the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting
> 
> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Chocolate Mulders and cries of 'I'm not worthy!' to Shell, proofreader extrordinaire; Nonie for wonderful character advice; Carrie for her eagle eye; Di for medical advice; and Janet, Connie, Carolina, and Alanna for the wonderful words of encouragement. If it's good, thank them; if it's bad, blame me. Thanks, kids!

Notes II  
by Octavian

 

This is *not* over.

I stand outside this rundown apartment building in a questionable part of Richmond; hoping against hope that maybe this time, I've found him. As soon as Mulder disappeared after that terrible argument on our front lawn, I started searching. If nothing else, our years together battling shadows and conspiracies have taught him how to hide and hide well. This is the sixty-eighth address I've checked in the last four months; each time, praying that the person who opens the door will be him. So far, I've found nothing but sixty-seven strangers.

I tried. God knows how I tried to be there for him, and help him through the nightmare of his sister's death. But he took it even worse than I had imagined, shutting himself off from anyone and everyone. Especially me. After seventeen years of friendship and almost eleven of marriage, I know Mulder too well not to realize that he never held me responsible for the fact that he didn't find Samantha until it was too late. It was his own innate and well-honed sense of guilt that made him hurl accusations at me; that made him blame me for not finding her it time to save her. That didn't make it hurt any less, though.

I wish I'd never told him. When the newest X-Files agents had brought the case to me, I just knew they had finally found Sam and, contrary to what the Smoker had told Mulder, she was not living happily ever after in a suburban home surrounded by a white picket fence and filled with a husband and 2.4 children. She was dead. After twenty-two years of incarceration in a mental hospital, she had managed to escape, only to be run down and killed on a dark highway. I battled with myself long and hard about whether or not to break the news to Mulder, but in the end I knew I couldn't keep this from him. We have always dealt in truths, my husband and I; and as much as it hurt, I was not about to change that.

Dammit. I'm getting teary-eyed again. Swiping angrily at my eyes, I refocus on the printout in my hand. Thank God for the Gunmen. Even though I haven't found him yet, they've still provided me with more potential leads than the FBI. There's something to be said for not following legal procedures. Walter has made finding Mulder a priority, and for that I'm more grateful than I can say. Despite the fact that Mulder is no longer a field agent, he is still 'Family'.

Enough brooding. It's time to knock on another door, flash Mulder's picture, and pray to God that this time, someone recognizes him. 

Climbing the front steps, I feel the familiar combination of fear and hope churning in my stomach and I take a few deep breaths to try and calm myself. I press button #2, marked 'Manager' and try to keep from fidgeting. There is no speaker system visible -- it seems an extravagance for such a lowly building -- so I just have to wait for someone to acknowledge my call. Several eternal seconds have elapsed and I'm getting ready to pass on this one and come back later when the front door opens. The manager is in fact an elderly Asian woman incongruously dressed in a flowered polyester shirt, black slacks and white Keds.

"I'm sorry, no vacancies." She speaks loudly in order to be heard over the two yards that separate the door from the front gate.

"I'm not here about an apartment." I'm fumbling for my badge as I talk. It's been years since I've had to whip out the I.D. on a regular basis. Even though I have been doing this almost daily for the last few months, my nervousness still makes it awkward. Finally, I've got the leather case disentangled from my pocket and I flip it open. "My name is Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI and I'd like to ask you a few questions."

She leans out the door in a feeble attempt to read the three-by-five piece of plastic I hold out to her. I'd gladly put my arm through the bars to get my badge a little closer to her, but the wire mesh that covers them makes that a little difficult. Finally, she leaves the security of the doorway and walks up to the gate, opening it enough to get an unobstructed view, but not enough to allow me to enter.

"FBI?" She's moving her eyes back and forth between my face and the picture on my badge. I hold the latter up to my cheek to make it easier on her. I guess she's decided I'm for real since she taps her chest, saying: "I'm Mrs. Kwok. Is there something wrong?"

"No, Ma'am," I say, putting the badge away before taking the picture out from between the pages of my address list. It was taken just last year for the Faculty section of the Quantico brochure. Mulder had complained mightily about having to sit for it, but I could tell he was also proud to represent the FBI as the head of the Abnormal Psychology Department.

Even though I've done this too many times already, that nauseating combination of fear and hope still makes my hands shake as I hold up the photo for her inspection. "I'm looking for this man. He's also with the Bureau and he went missing several months ago. I was hoping you'd seen him recently." How many times have I said those words? How many times have I let myself believe that this time I'd been successful, only to have my hopes crushed with a shake of the head and a mumbled apology?

I'm steeling myself for rejection number sixty-eight as Mrs. Kwok pulls my hand closer to study the photograph. I will not hope, I will not hope, I will not hope. The fact that she's studying his face means nothing; she's an elderly woman and neither her eyesight nor her memory is what it used to be. She's still staring and I'm starting to tremble violently while she takes her own sweet time replying. Finally, she's staring at me, her expression confused. "Nathan's an FBI agent?"

What? What did she say? Nathan. She recognizes his face. Oh my God, she recognizes him! "Y... you..." I've got to clear my throat and try and talk around the tears that threaten to choke me. "You know this man?" My voice is weak in my own ears and I'm afraid she didn't hear me, but then she nods.

"Yes, this is Nathan Mann. He rented an apartment from me about four months ago." She stares down at his picture again, shaking her head slowly. "Such a nice man, but so sad." Suddenly, she looks up at me again. "Did he do something wrong?" She sounds afraid, like she's worried she's been harboring some kind of psychotic criminal. All I can think, is that I've found him.

Try as I might, my eyes are tearing up and I rub them roughly, stopping the tears before I can speak again. "No Ma'am, he hasn't done anything wrong. But he has been missing for four months and his family is desperate to find him." Desperate is an understatement. It takes all my control not to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her until she tells me where he is, takes me to him and shows me he's all right. "Is he still here?" My heart almost stops at the thought that I've missed him, that he's already come and gone.

She's nodding, that's a good sign. I feel my heart beat again. "He still rents from me. He doesn't seem to go out much, so I guess he's still here, but I don't know for sure." She's staring at me with this strange look on her face and I realize that she's been holding Mulder's photograph out for me to take, but I've been too distracted to notice.

I take the picture from her and return it to the sheaf of papers. My hand shakes so violently that it takes four tries before I succeed. "What apartment is he in?" My voice is still waterlogged, but stronger than it was a moment ago.

Mrs. Kwok points at the rows of buzzers and says: "Three-C, third floor." She indicates that I should ring the bell marked 'Mann'.

I look back at her and shake my head. "Thank you so much for your cooperation, but I need to see him and I'm afraid he won't answer even if he is home." I'm on the verge of losing my control and I take a deep breath to keep from shouting at her when she still doesn't move from in front of the gate. "May I come in please?" I need to see him now; I need to know he's okay.

She takes nigh on to forever to make up her mind. I swear I've aged years in these few seconds. "Okay, but I need to go up with you." Her tone brooks no argument and I nod rapidly in agreement. Finally, she opens the gate, then the door, and then she starts making her way up the stairs. Mountains have been scaled in less time. We're not even at the second floor and I swear ten minutes have already passed since she first let me in.

I can't wait anymore.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I'm on the third floor before my guide has a chance to say a word. Finally, I'm standing in front of apartment 3C and I hesitate, trying to regain my composure. Breathe, Dana, just breathe. I'm as good as I'm going to get, so I rap lightly on the door. There's no answer so I turn to the landlady who's just made it to the landing. "Could you knock for me please? He's probably not expecting anyone, so he won't answer."

She nods and knocks on the door more loudly than I had done. "Mr. Mann?" she says breathlessly. "It's Mrs. Kwok. I need to talk to you." Dammit, Mulder, answer the door. "I guess he went out," she says with a shrug of her shoulders and starts to turn away.

"I'll just wait here," I call out. I'm not leaving until I see him again; if that means I've got to sit in this hallway for the rest of the evening, then that's what I'll do. I lean my forehead against the cool wood, feeling frustrated and emotionally drained.

Wait a minute, I hear something. Turning my cheek to the door, I try to press my ear to the crack between the door and the frame. Yes, there's definitely sounds coming out of his apartment, music maybe. I know my husband well and I know he's not the kind of person to leave the TV or radio going when he's out. I knock again, louder this time. "Mulder? Mulder, I know you're there. Please open the door."

He's not answering and I'm suddenly seized with panic. "Mulder! Open the damn door!" I'm pounding on the door with my left hand as I grab the doorknob with my right. It's open. This is wrong, very wrong. There is no way the most paranoid man in the world would leave his door unlocked. My hand is fumbling for the gun at the small of my back as I slowly push the door open. "Mulder?" My quiet question is answered with nothing but the tinny sounds of Mozart coming from a radio somewhere to my left.

I've finally got my gun clear and I'm holding it before me as I scan the apartment. The living room is clean and sparsely furnished -- the only signs of inhabitance being three small boxes on the coffee table. I'm beginning to think I might be in the wrong apartment somehow. But as I look left, I see something that makes me stop breathing. Mulder's suit. It's hanging on the door to what I assume is the bedroom. Walking past it, I can tell it's my favorite, the dove gray one we bought for him to wear to our 10th anniversary party just under a year ago.

A lifetime ago.

The music is louder in here. The small radio on the nightstand fills the room with the overture to 'The Magic Flute'. There is a light on in the bathroom, but I hear no sounds as I approach as quickly as I can, still keeping my weapon ahead of me. Just outside the doorway, I'm hit with wet heat of steam and a metallic smell I recognize all too easily. Blood.

"Mulder?" My voice echoes back at me as I step into the bathroom, scanning the small room in less than a second.

He's so pale. Oh God, he's so white and the water around him so dark. I don't know how I got here, but I'm kneeling by the tub. I try to keep my fingers still long enough to find a pulse in his neck as I use my free hand to get my cell phone. Through the scarlet water, I can see the long gashes running up the insides of both his forearms. Jesus. Is his chest even moving? God, please, he has to be breathing.

There, I've found it. It's so weak and fast, but it's there. Barely.

I dial 911 and tuck the phone between my neck and shoulder as I work the belt off my trench coat. The gasp from the door makes me spin around, briefly trying to find where I dropped my gun. Mrs. Kwok stands there, her face ashen and shocked. I motion for her to stay where he is as my call is answered. "This is FBI Assistant Director Dana Scully, I need an ambulance at..." Shit, what's the address?!

I look up to the elderly woman whose gaze is currently fixed on the sight of my dying husband sitting in a tub filled with his own blood. "The address!" I yell and she finally looks back at me. "What the hell's the address?"

Her mouth works soundlessly for moment and I desperately want to slap her. Finally, she seems to have found her voice. "1710 Grove Street, corner of North Hamilton and Grove."

"1710 Grove Street, corner of North Hamilton and Grove, third floor, apartment three-c. The manager will be waiting with the security gate open." I look back at her and she nods in understanding, finally leaving to head downstairs. "I've got a white male, forty-nine years old," I pause to look at the prominence of his ribs under the deathly white skin, "one-hundred and fifty pounds. He's in severe hypovolemic shock due to two wounds to the wrists and forearms." There's a straight razor in the soap dish, liberally covered with blood. Trying not to think about it, I grab it and cut my belt in half, the movement almost causing the phone to slip. I drop the razor back on the floor and start tying one half around the arm nearest to me, just above the elbow -- a makeshift tourniquet to try and keep what little blood Mulder has left from draining out of him.

"Units are on their way, Ma'am. ETA two minutes," the calm voice tells me. I lift my head and let the phone crash to the tile as I pull the belt as tight as I can. The skin puckers as I tie the knots roughly, too roughly. But I'm mad, furious at him and I want him to feel the pain. I want him to moan and complain and bitch because then I'll know he's alive. But his face is still slack, his voice silent. Part of me wants to try and take his pulse again, but I can't waste time. I need to get the other arm tied off.

"Damn you, Mulder." I lean over him, wrapping the other half of my belt around his right arm. "Damn you and your selfishness. How dare you do this to me? How *dare* you?" I yank the ends of the belt so hard, I'm almost afraid I'll break the bone. I can smell the reek of blood and bodily fluids wafting up to me in the steam from the bathtub and I want to retch. "You selfish bastard. You can't just run away from this. I won't let you run away from this. Damn you. Damn you!"

I pull his arms out of the scalding water, trying to raise them above the level of his heart. Standing up, I move to sit on the edge of the tub Holding his hands in mine, watching the bright scarlet rivulets of water running from the gaping wounds he's inflicted on himself. "Oh God, Mulder, how could you do this to us?" Only a little blood still flows slowly from torn veins -- whether from the pressure of the tourniquets or simply because he has so little blood left, I don't want to think about. Putting his palms together, I hold both his hands in my right as I reach with my left to release the drain stop. The hot water has made his heart work hard, trying to cool his body and ultimately forcing his blood out the cut vessels of his arms. If I can cool him down even a little, it should take some of the pressure off his already overabused heart.

There's no chain on the stop, so I'm going have to reach into the water to remove it. Jesus, Mulder, I can't do this. I can't reach my hand into this tub full of your life. Swallowing bile, I reach down between his feet, the red-tinged water wicking up the sleeves of my blouse and jacket. I'm starting to vomit, but I choke it back; I can't add this insult to his injury. Finally, I've got hold of the rubber stop and yank it out, staring for a moment as my husband's life drains away.

"Mulder, when you wake up, I'm going to give you such shit for putting me through this. You *will* wake up, damn you. You will." Keeping his hands in mine, I grab the ankle farthest from me and pull it up so it rests on the edge of the tub. He sinks a little farther down; when I put his other foot over the edge, he slides onto his back like a rag doll. I switch his hands into my left and reach for his neck with my right, zeroing in on the carotid artery. I'm sobbing hysterically, and I need to calm down if I want to try and feel a heartbeat.

Where is it?

Okay, Scully, breathe calmly, concentrate on the feel of the arteries underneath the skin of his neck. There's a pulse. There has to be a pulse. You just need to be calm.

Nothing.

Don't do this to me, Mulder. Don't you leave me like this.

Please, Mulder.

Please love, don't leave me alone.

Please.

A flutter.

I'm not sure if I really feel a heartbeat at all. It could be my own pulse beating in my fingertips. No, it's much too irregular to me mine, so it has to be his. Thank you God. My left arm is busy holding Mulder's up, so I can't see my watch, but I know his heart rate is terribly fast. The almost imperceptible pounding of his blood underneath my fingertips is suddenly overshadowed by the pounding of feet rushing up the stairs.

"In here!" I yell as I stand up and step into the tub between Mulder's spread legs so the EMTs have unobstructed access to him. The second they step through the door, I start issuing orders. "Pulse and respiration are very fast, probably over 140, he's lost a lot of blood, I've only just tourniqueted him and he's been unconscious for at least the last four minutes. Blood type is B-positive; he was exposed to an unknown retrovirus about fifteen years ago, but there have been no apparent complications. He has no known allergies or serious health problems."

The man and woman rush over to him, placing their cases on the floor One of them -- Gonzaga, according to his uniform -- nearly steps on my gun and looks up at me, startled. "FBI," I tell him quickly, irrationally furious for pausing even a nanosecond on his way to try and save Mulder's life. He nods, pushing the weapon aside with his kit as he opens it and begins setting up the radio and EKG.

His partner has the stethoscope, placing the bell against the side of Mulder's neck, checking for a pulse. "Heart rate 147," she calls over her shoulder. "Pupils dilated and unresponsive. Skin warm, but clammy." She quickly checks the belts around Mulder's arms as her partner puts the EKG leads on his chest. "Nice work," she says as she reaches for the IV's and I can hear Gonzaga reporting all the information I've already given them -- as well as his partner's observations -- back to the hospital.

"Get him started on saline and Ringers Lactate, stat," comes the order from the doctor on the other end of the line. The partners share a quick glance to communicate that they both heard and understood. Just like Mulder and I when we were partners. My nervousness increases as I realize she's going to try and insert the IV in the jugular -- this is not an easy move. I'm about to ask her why she doesn't just put it in the top of his foot, when I see Gonzaga approaching me bearing what appears to be a pair of ski pants. Ah, MAST pants: when inflated they help force the blood out of the extremities to the organs where it's more important.

Before he can say a word, I step out of the tub, still holding Mulder's arms aloft. The EMT takes my place, quickly putting the pants on and pumping air into them. "Rolland, what's going on?" I hear from the radio. I look at the woman who must be the one they're calling, but she's too busy trying to insert the needle as quickly and delicately as possible into Mulder's neck. I'm not about to do anything that would deter these two from their work, so I reach down for the radio.

"The EMTs are currently working to stabilize the patient and get him ready to move. MAST pants are being inflated." I look to see the IV has been started and the two bags attached to the main line are easy it recognize. "Saline and Ringers Lactate are in and wide open." Dropping the handset, I hold Mulder's hands in both of mine and glance at the startled paramedics. "Are we ready to move?" I'm using my best 'AD' voice because I can't waste time answering questions.

They exchange knowing looks as Rolland finishes taping the IV down. As much as I rue the additional seconds this takes, I know that if the needle is jostled during transport, it could easily finish the job Mulder has already started. Gonzaga picks up the squawking radio with one hand while putting their supplies away with the other. "We're preparing to move him now," he says quickly, and leaves to position the gurney as close to the door as possible. The bathroom's too small to fit it, so they'll have to carry him out, which means I'll have to let go of his hands. That's one thing I desperately don't want to do.

I see Rolland's hands on mine and I look up to see her sympathetic expression. "We have to move him." I nod in understanding, but still keep my grip tight. "*Now*," she insists and I unclench my fingers, wondering if this will be the last time I hold his warm hands in mine. She crosses Mulder's arms on his chest and I suddenly see him laying just like that, wearing the suit he'd prepared, surrounded by the satin lining of a casket. I taste blood from where I'd bitten my tongue to keep from crying, and move to stand against the counter so the paramedics have room to maneuver. "Let's go," the woman calls to her partner, grabbing Mulder under his arms as Gonzaga takes his feet. I watch as his limp, unconscious body is placed quickly yet gently on the gurney. But over it all, I still see the image of him laying peacefully in his coffin. I can't help wondering if this is one of those 'psychic moments' Mulder has suggested I'm prone to. If it is, I swear to God I'll never forgive you for doing this to me. I don't know who I mean, God or my husband. Maybe both.

Rolland quickly covers Mulder with a sheet as her partner puts the equipment at the foot of the stretcher. "We're movin'!" she calls out, and they start their way out of the apartment heading toward the stairs.

As I'm following the gurney, one of the police officers who was also called to the scene hands me my cell phone, but is reluctant to do so with my gun. He must have picked them up while my attention was focused elsewhere. I grab my ID, flashing it at him. He hands over my weapon and I murmur "Thanks."

"Ma'am, we'll need to ask you a few questions," he says firmly. I know this is procedure, but there no way I'm going to hang around and chat with him right now.

Slipping my gun into my holster, I call back over my shoulder. "I'm Assistant Director Dana Scully, and this is a matter for the Bureau. Deputy Director Walter Skinner will be here soon himself to supervise the investigation. In the meantime, secure the scene and make sure nobody compromises any evidence."

I don't bother waiting to hear his reply before I'm running out to catch up with the EMTs who are already loading Mulder into the ambulance. "What hospital?" I yell, pulling my car keys out of my pocket. I desperately want to ride with them, but I'd only get in the way. I just have to trust in God and the paramedics that he will survive the trip to the hospital. Christ, I think I'm going to be sick.

"Richmond Memorial," Gonzaga calls out to me.

Breathing deeply to try and keep from puking my guts out in front of them, I nod and head for my car. The sirens are deafening, but by the time I'm sitting in the front seat, they're already out of hearing range. I want to cry. I want to break down and weep for years, but I can't do that yet because I still need to drive to the hospital and fill out the forms and talk to the nurses and call my family and friends and do all the same shit that I've always done whenever Mulder's gotten himself hurt or sick. But this time he did it to himself. This time he's trying to take his own life, to ditch me one last time because he can't take the pain anymore.

Well fuck you, Mulder. Fuck you for being a coward, for not letting me help you, for making me love you and care whether or not you live. Fuck you for putting me through this guided tour of Hell that'll be with me for the rest of my life no matter what happens now. Fuck you for choosing to live in a city that I've never been to before so that I'm lost and don't know the way to the hospital -- leaving me stranded here, eyes too waterlogged to read the map that's sitting on the passenger's seat. Fuck you for trying to take away my future. Because you are my future: my future happiness, my future comfort, even my future pain. Fuck you for not realizing this and for making me suffer through this.

Fuck you.

"FUCK YOU!" My throat is sore; I don't know how long I've been screaming to myself. I can feel the tears soaking the collar of my blouse as I lean my head forward to rest on the steering wheel and my body convulses with sobs. Damn you, Mulder. How can you be so blind?

Grabbing a handful of tissues from my purse, I blow my nose and try to calm down. I'm useless right now and I've got to pull myself back together. The hospital, I have to get to the hospital. Blinking away a few more tears, I grab the map and start plotting my route. Thank God, it's pretty direct and easy to remember. My hands are shaking so badly that I can't get the damn keys in the ignition. Got it. Now I just have to remain calm enough to drive to the hospital without crashing the car. I'm turning on to North Hamilton as I reach for my cell phone, hitting the power button and speed dial #4 without ever taking my eyes off the road.

"Skinner." His voice hits me just as I put the phone to my ear.

Clearing my throat as best I can, my voice is still hoarse as I croak out: "Walter, it's Dana." I'm on the verge of tears again, but I can't spare a hand to grab more tissues.

"Dana, what's wrong? Did you find him?" He sounds more worried than I've ever heard him. I don't think he's seen me cry before, so I'm sure the sounds of my choked voice on the phone has given him reason to worry.

"Yes, I did." He's trying to leave me. He took a big razor and sliced up his arms and he's lost so much blood that I don't know if I'm going to be a widow before the day ends and I'm so scared because I don't think I'll be able to handle it if he doesn't make it. "He... he... Jesus, Walter, he's tried to kill himself," I cry into the phone.

I blink a few more times to try and clear my vision, making the final right turn which will eventually lead me to the hospital. "Dana? Dana, is he okay? Is Mulder okay?" His voice sounds panicked now and I realize I've been ignoring him for a few moments. "Scully, talk to me." That helps pull me out of my reverie and I clear my throat again. 

There it is -- Richmond Memorial. I follow the signs that point to the ER parking lot, heedless of the 10-MPH speed limit. "He's in bad shape. I'm at the hospital now, but I want you to go to the scene." 'The scene.' Like this was just another crime and not my worst nightmare come true. "The police are there, but..."

"You can never be too careful," he finishes my thought for me. Mulder and I still have enemies and I need to be aware of every possibility. But I know in my heart of hearts that this wasn't a setup, this was Mulder's doing. That knowledge makes my stomach clench and my breath stop. I wish I could believe that this was some elaborate attempt at murder; it would actually make me feel better to know that Mulder wouldn't do this to me on purpose.

Pulling into the nearest spot, I'm out of the car before the engine has stopped completely, running toward the ER doors. "The apartment is in Richmond, Virginia, on... Grove Street; the landlady's name is Mrs. Kwok." I have neither the time nor a free hand to grab the list again. Fortunately, Walter has a copy of his own and should be able to find it easily.

The rush of air from the overhead fans as I enter the automatic doors cuts off the first part of Walter's sentence. "...be at his apartment in about an hour. I'll come right to the hospital when I'm done. Call me if there's any news."

There's admittance -- a quick turn and I'm standing at the desk, waiting for the nurse to get off the phone. "I will, thank you." Shutting the phone off before he can reply, I return it to my pocket and reach for my badge again, holding it up in front of her face.

She waves at me in acknowledgement and returns her attention to the phone. I start drumming my fingers impatiently on the desk, searching for someone else who might be able to help me. "Okay... right... that's fine. Just bring her in if her temp is still over 100. You're welcome." Finally she hangs up and I jump on her before she has a chance to ask me anything.

"I need to find out the condition of a Mr. Mulder, Fox Mulder. He was brought in within the last ten minutes." I'm really trying to stay calm, but I'm ready to start screaming if I don't find out what's going on.

She takes her own sweet time picking up the clipboard, scanning the names casually. "I don't see a 'Fox Mulder' here," she says, glancing at the list again.

This can't be right. I'm certain they said Richmond Memorial, and I know this is where I am. I know they would have made it here long before me and would have at least taken his name before going into surgery.

Unless the ambulance wasn't real. I'm assaulted with visions of a dim hallway and Mulder's lips on mine for the first time, of a sharp pain on the back of my neck and a slow slide into unconsciousness. As absurd as the notion is, I need to consider it. But I'm pretty sure I caught a glimpse of Gonzaga and Rolland as I passed the waiting ambulances. That's not it.

Unless he was pronounced on the way here. I can feel my knees buckle and I grab the counter to keep myself upright. If he... expired in the ambulance, they wouldn't bother with the paperwork. "No." My voice is weak in my ears, a mere whimper. "No, he has to be here. He *has* to be here." The nurse looks at me quizzically as I begin to talk to her, my voice becoming louder with each word. "He was picked up at an apartment on Grove, two self-inflicted razor wounds to the forearms, Caucasian, late forties, brown hair, hazel eyes, six feet tall." Brilliant, loving, witty, beautiful, demanding, guilt-ridden, sweet as sugar, adoring and adorable, the love of my life.

Her eyes open wide as I'm speaking to her. "You mean the John Doe? He was brought in about ten minutes ago, rushed straight into OR. Deep cuts up the inside of both forearms, wrist to elbow -- brought in by Gonzaga and Rolland?"

John Doe? Of course. Mulder didn't have an ID on him and was renting under a false name. I just now realize that I never told the paramedics who he was or even who I was, and they never asked. My relief is great but short-lived. He's made it this far, but the surgery required to save his life will be long and demanding. "What theater? Who are the attending surgeons? Who can update me on his condition?" My words are coming thick and fast now as I try to take control of myself by taking control of the situation.

Leafing through the files, she pulls the appropriate one and begins scanning it. Without a second thought, I snatch it from her hands and murmur something about being a medical doctor. The records are sparse and don't help me in the slightest. "What's your relationship to the patient?" she asks me in a tone which is distinctly huffy.

Without looking up from my study of the documents before me, I mutter: "He's my husband."

When I finally lift my head, her expression is sympathetic. "I'm sorry. Here," she says, handing me a clipboard covered with at least an inch of forms. "I'll need you to fill these out, but you can do it in the OR waiting room instead of down here. I'll have someone inform one of the attending nurses that you're here and want to be updated as soon as possible."

My throat is choked with tears and I know I'll start crying again if I try to speak, but she seems to understand my expression. "Wait here a moment and I'll take you there." Leaving me standing there, clutching the clipboard in one hand and the counter in the other, she approaches one of the other nurses. I'm assuming she's asking him to cover for her for a while. She returns quickly through the locked door that separates the waiting room from the emergency theaters and takes hold of my arm, guiding me through the maze of hallways to the elevators. She doesn't try to speak; she knows better than to try and make small talk. I take a look at her nametag. Amelia Torrich, RN. I'll have to remember that when this is all over.

As we're waiting for the elevator, I gasp suddenly as I realize I haven't made the most important call: my mother. Tucking the clipboard under my arm, I reach for my cell phone, turning it on and entering the speed dial as I feel the nurse's hand on mine. "I'm sorry, you can't use those here." She doesn't realize how important this is, and I open my mouth to argue with her. "There's a phone in the waiting room you can   
use. We'll be there in just a few moments." Her voice is soft, but her grip on my hand remains firm and I bob my head in acquiescence. "Thank you." is all she says as she holds the elevator door open for me to enter.

Three floors. It's only three floors up, but it feels like this is the slowest elevator in history. God, what am I going to tell Mom? She adored Mulder when he and I were just partners, but was a little less than thrilled when I told her he and I were engaged. I think she still harbored some secret hope that I'd meet a nice man who would love me as much as Mulder, but who would be a little more careful with himself, and more importantly, with me. Even so, I know she loves him as much as Charlie or Bill, Jr. She just turned 70 and this is going to hurt her as badly as any of the tragedies she's had to weather over the years. How do you explain to a mother who's already lost a daughter that she just might lose a son-in-law?

The doors are finally opening and I squeeze through as soon as the gap is wide enough. Torrich follows close behind, waving me down the hall. "This way." She heads to the right and I follow blindly, focusing on the back of her head as she guides me down the corridor. I'm so intent on just putting one foot in front of the other that I almost run into her when she stops suddenly. "You can wait here. There's a phone on the table and there are vending machines just next door. I'll see if I can find an OR nurse and get an update." Before I can say a word, she's out the door and down the hall.

Thankfully, the waiting room is empty. Four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon isn't a busy time for emergency surgeries. The telephone is almost hidden among the stacks of old magazines on the small end table. I try to pick it up to set it on my lap, but it's bolted to the surface right next to a laminated card reading: 'Local Calls Only'. Lovely. My wallet's in my purse and my purse is in my car, and the frustration I feel is making me cry again. Shit. I'm not leaving this room until I know the outcome of the surgery, so I guess I have no choice. It takes me three tries just to dial 9 and 0; I can't imagine how long it would have taken me if I were dialing Mom's number directly.

"AT&T operator, how may I help you?" Wow, a real live person -- will wonders never cease. I'm so stunned by this revelation that I hear the voice again, decidedly pissed this time. "AT&T operator, can I *help* you?"

"I..." Jesus, is that my voice? I sound like I've been gargling with broken glass. "I need to make a collect call."

"Number please?"

"Three-oh-one, eight-four-nine, six-eight-nine-one." God, please don't make me repeat that, I'm already choked with tears and I haven't even begun to tell Mom the news.

"Your name?

"Sc..." Shit, now I'm crying in earnest. No one calls me just Scully. No one except Mulder. "Uh... Dana. Dana Scully."

"Please hold while I connect the call." Her voice is so bored and disinterested that I have this sudden desire to scream at her. Doesn't she realize what's happening? How can anyone be apathetic when the world is coming in an end?

The line's finally ringing but what if she's not home? Oh God, I can't leave this kind of message on her machine. Please be home. Please be home because I can't go through this whole process again. Fourth ring. Great, I'm going to get the machine, but I won't even be able to leave a message if I wanted to. "Hi, there's no one here to take your call right now..."

"Ma'am? There doesn't appear to be anyone home..."

Over the sound of the operator's voice I hear the message cut off, replaced by a breathless "Hello?"

"Mom? Mom, it's Dana.

"AT&T operator with a collect call from Dana Scully. Will you accept the charges?"

"Dana? Dana, what's happened? Uh, yes, yes I accept. Dana? What's going on?"

If this were a movie, the cacophony of sound would be amusing, but right now all I want to do is scream in frustration. "Thank you for using AT&T," the woman parrots as our call is finally connected. Like I care.

"Dana, are you there? Is something wrong?" Mom is getting decidedly worried and I take a deep breath to calm myself and try to find some way to tell her what happened without panicking her even more.   
Blinking to clear the tears, I see that nurse Torrich has returned. I mumble something into the phone and place my hand over the mouthpiece. There's no way in hell my mother's going to learn about this by overhearing our conversation.

"What's the status?" My, I almost sounded calm there. Nothing like 'medical mode' to keep my voice steady.

"He's still in surgery and he'll be there for quite a long time to come. They've got a team of vascular and micro surgeons working to repair the damage and they're still trying to replace the blood he's lost. About five pints, from what they can tell."

I nod dumbly at her report while the doctor part of my brain considers the potential complications when a person's body is drained of almost half its blood. Damn you Mulder, I don't want to have to think about this. "Thank you," I whisper, trying to smile at her but failing miserably.

"You're welcome. Good luck Mrs. Mulder." Mrs. Mulder? God, that sounds so strange -- no one ever calls me that. The Widow Mulder... Great, now I've cast myself in a Jane Austin novel. The buzzing in my ears could be indicative of a fainting spell, but as I look down at my lap, I realize it's just the sound of my mother yelling over the phone.

"...Dana, what the hell is going on! Talk to me, dammit!" Dad wasn't the only one in the house who could swear when the need arose.

"Sorry, Mom, I had to talk to the nurse." Well, there goes breaking it to her gently.

"Nurse?" she says in a panicked tone. "What's wrong? Why are you in a hospital? Are you all right? Is this about Fox?" It could be my imagination, but she sounds a little angry as she mentions Mulder's name. My mother is a woman of boundless love and empathy, but she's also a woman of immense strength. I don't think she understands what Mulder went through when his sister died. I know she's trying, but I get the feeling that she just thinks he's wallowing in self-pity. I can't say that I blame her right now.

The waterworks have started again, so I have to work hard to get out the words. "Yes, Mom, it's about Fox." My voice breaks as I say his first name -- one of the few times I've ever said it -- and I'm sobbing noisily into the phone.

"Is he okay?" The anger is gone in an instant leaving only fear.

There are boxes of tissues on virtually every surface, so I grab a handful from a nearby dispenser, hastily wiping my eyes and nose. "No. No, he's not okay. He, he hurt himself, Mom." God, I can almost feel myself regressing as I talk to her. I'm old enough to have grandchildren now, but talking to my mother still reduces me to a six-year-old sometimes.

Her gasp is loud in my ears and I can hear her start to cry. "Is he... is he gone?" She can't bring herself to say the words, which is good because I can't bear to hear them.

"No. But it's bad, it's very bad." A little scared whisper is all I can manage and then I'm sobbing harder, the gasps and coughs made worse by the fact that I'm trying to hold them in.

I can hear similar struggles happening on the other end of the line before she finally asks: "What hospital?"

Now I could give her some line about the drive being too far, that she should just wait at home, but I'm too selfish for that. "Richmond Memorial. I don't have the address, but it's in Richmond, Virginia. I can find someone to give me directions..."

"Don't worry about it, I can figure it out for myself. I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you, Sweetheart, and I'm praying for you both." I can tell she's calm again; she has always had that amazing ability to do tamp down her emotions when she had too. She was my role model.

"You too, Mom. Drive carefully." The line goes dead and I just stare at the phone as if I'm not sure what to do with it. Finally, the electronic buzz gets too annoying and I rest the handset back on the cradle. I notice that my hand is much darker that the beige of the phone; the healthy pink of my skin standing out against the cold plastic. But as I stare I see that the color is anything but healthy. It's more brown than pink; it's cracked and flaking in spots.

It's Mulder's blood on my hands.

I don't have time to find a bathroom, so the wastebasket next to the door will have to do. The acid burning in my esophagus only makes my cry harder, my retching interspersed with sobs, which in turn make my throat hurt even more. I'm caught in this horrifying cycle of vomiting, crying, choking and coughing that threatens to knock me out because I can't catch my breath. At this point, I'm looking forward to unconsciousness. But I am not going to be that lucky -- one of the nurses has her arms around me and I can hear her issuing orders. I'm sure my gagging could be heard in the nurses' station just a few yards down the hall. "Call one of the doctors and see if we can get a sedative," she tells one of her colleagues. As much as I crave the oblivion of sleep, I need to be awake and alert for when Mulder gets out of surgery. The fear of being medicated helps me start to get my sobbing under control. The dry heaves, however, are another matter entirely. "Just breathe, Ma'am, deep breaths. It'll be okay. We'll get you something to help calm you.

My stomach is starting to quiet down and I shake my head, spitting bile into the trash. "No sedatives," I gasp out as I lift my trembling hand and gently push her away. She loosens her hold, but still insists on guiding me into a sitting position against the doorframe. I'm too weak to resist. Suddenly, there's a paper cup filled with water being placed against my mouth and I open my lips gratefully.

"Don't swallow, just rinse," she instructs me in that 'concerned medical professional' voice we all learn in school. I know it's not an act, but I can't help but be annoyed at her. I do as instructed, trying to get the foul taste out of my mouth. "That's good," she croons.

I'm becoming irrationally angry at her perceived condescension and I snap at her. "I know, I'm a doctor." I am finally able to lift my eyes and I see the carefully concealed anger in her expression. Like every member of her profession, she has to deal with doctors' superiority complexes every day. The last thing she needs is attitude from someone she's trying to help. "I'm sorry," I say, taking the wad of tissues she offers me and wiping my eyes. "I'm scared and worried and pissed off, and the person who's responsible is the one person I can't yell at right now." She gives me a sympathetic smile in response and hands me more tissues so I can blow my nose.

She's staring at my hands and the blood-soaked sleeves of my blouse. "You found him." Not a question, a statement. Another nod and more tears and before I know it, I'm being pulled into her embrace, my head on her shoulder and my arms wrapped around her waist. "It'll be okay, he's going to make it and then you can bitch him out in person." She laughs and I let out a waterlogged chuckle, feeling her tighten her hold on me. "C'mon," she whispers, "let's get you cleaned up."

I pull away slowly and she helps me to stand. Keeping her arm around my waist, she guides me toward the gowning room. She's a good six inches taller than I, her skin as dark as her uniform is white. What a pair we must make. "I'm Dana," I mumble as we make our way down the hall. "Thank you." I'd like to say more, but I know I'll just start bawling again.

"Martha," she says kindly. "And it's nice to meet you, Doctor Dana." I can hear the smile in her voice. "What kind of doctor are you?" We step into the prep room and she guides me over to a chair, turning to grab some scrubs.

"Forensic pathologist," I reply with a much calmer voice, "but I work for the FBI." Her eyes widen as she walks back to me and starts to hand me the pale green bundle, but backs away abruptly, staring at my hands. Without looking down at the object of her scrutiny, I can feel the bile rise again. I don't trust myself to speak; I can only nod and take deep breaths to try and calm down.

She nods and sets the clothes on the counter as I trudge over to the sinks, shedding my overcoat as I go. Folding it over my arm, I notice the stains on the sleeves and hem. Another London Fog ruined. Martha comes up next to me and holds open a plastic bag for me to put my dirty clothes into. "Thanks, but I think this one's a goner," I tell her in a pathetic attempt at humor. A quick search of the pockets yields my badge and keys, and I hand the coat over to her leaving the rest on the counter. The white cuffs of my blouse are now beige and the beige sleeves of my suit jacket are brown. Looking down, I see dark splashes on my pants and shoes as well. Oh God. Suddenly, I can't be out of these blood-soaked rags fast enough. Toeing off my shoes, I try to unbutton my blouse but my hands are shaking so much, I'm not having any luck. To hell with it, it's not like I'm going to be able to salvage the thing anyway. The rending sound of fabric is immediately followed by the soft plink of buttons hitting the floor and walls. I shrug out of the jacket and blouse simultaneously; the fabric gets caught at my wrists, but I just pull that much harder. The pain is immaterial in comparison to my need to get the damn things off. I can see Martha out of the corner of my eye, picking up the ruined clothes and making a quick search of the jacket pockets in case I've missed anything. "Thanks," I mumble as I attack the fly of my pants.

They fall to the floor quickly, my gun and holster weighing them down. I step over to the sink, slamming down hard on the foot pedals for the faucet and plunging my hands and arms under the spray. I'm vaguely aware of the sound of the door behind me closing. I think she's left, but I don't waste time turning around to check. I grab the scrub brush, dousing it with antiseptic soap and then attacking the stains on my hands and arms. The orange foam darkens as it mingles with the dried blood that covers me. I work the brush under my nails, between my fingers, on my hands, and up my arms, trying not to focus on the thin blue lines of veins that run up the inside of my forearm. Veins that can so easily be sliced open if one has the will to do so.

Hiccuping on a sob, I keep working the brush along my arms, developing a rhythm: scrub, rinse, add soap, scrub, rinse, add soap. The feel of hands on my shoulders makes me jump and I hear Martha's quiet voice in my ear. How long have I been here? Didn't she just leave? "It's okay, it's gone. It's all gone. Your hands are clean now." I can only take her word for it, because my eyes are too filled with tears to see anything. I rinse, feeling the sting of the water and antiseptic for the first time. My skin glows an angry pink from the force of the scrubbing I've given myself.

A sterile towel is placed gently on my hands, and I automatically start to dry myself off, rubbing my face with the damp cloth. What if there's some on my face? There's no mirror above the sinks, but there is one on the other side of the room. I rush over and start examining my face and neck, telltale dots of reddish brown showing up easily against my skin. If I wasn't already on the verge of hysteria, this would certainly put me there. The view of myself in the mirror is suddenly blocked by the white of a washcloth Martha is holding in front of my face. I take it with unsteady hands and start working it roughly along my face and neck. It's damp and has some kind of soap on it, but it's sweet-smelling not medicinal like the standard hospital fare. Once that's done, I'm handed another towel and I finish drying myself off. I realize I must look like a fool standing there in nothing but my underwear and a pair of knee-highs, but I can't say that I care much.

It's been a while since I've worn standard hospital scrubs -- sterility isn't much of an issue when you're doing an autopsy -- but they feel familiar, even comforting, as I put them on. I roll up the pant cuffs so they don't drag on the floor and put on the booties Martha has laid out for me.

All I need is a cap and mask and I'm ready for surgery. I want to go in there and see how he's doing, watch them work and stay by him whispering in his ear, telling him that it's going to be okay. But I know I can't, and the knowledge that there's absolutely nothing more I can do tears at me painfully. I've done all I can, now I just have to wait.

And that's the hardest part of all.

\------

There are six-hundred and thirty-one tiles on the floor of the hallway leading from the nurses' station to the elevators -- and I've counted them all.

Seven times.

After I'd made my way back to the waiting room, Martha brought me coffee -- made in the small break room at the end of the hall, not from a vending machine -- and we just sat and talked for a while. We chatted about careers and educations, movies and music, even religion and politics. But never about family. Finally, she had to return to her station and I had to scale the paperwork mountain that every hospital stay requires. Just call me Sir Edmund Hillary, but where are the sherpas when you need them?

At least it gave me something to focus on. Once that was done, I handed it all over to Martha who kindly called admitting and had someone pick up the forms. I didn't even bother with the pretense of reading any of the ancient magazines in the waiting room. I already know who won the last election. So my only option was movement: up and down the hall in measured steps -- twenty-eight each way. Next was calculating distance: length of stride times the number of steps equals... a hell of a lot of pacing.

I've had one update on Mulder's condition in the last two hours I've been wearing down the flooring. About forty-five minutes ago a nurse informed me that the surgery was going well and Mulder was, quote, holding his own, end quote. My personal favorite medical euphemism. It can mean anything from 'He'll be fine, but we want to cover our asses in case something unexpected happens' to 'Well, he hasn't croaked on us yet'. When I tried to cajole her into telling me more by using the old 'I'm a doctor' routine, she simply said: "And as a doctor, you should know that any surgery is risky and unpredictable." Thank you, Nurse Ratchett.

Other than a call from Walter almost an hour ago telling me he'd arrived at the scene, and another one from my mother informing me that she'd be here within half an hour, it's just been me and the hallway.

"You need to eat." I turn around to see Martha holding the tuna sandwich she brought me over an hour ago. It's still hermetically sealed in the little white plastic container. I shrug and head past her on my next circuit, but her hand on my arm stops me. "You're already underweight, the last thing any of us need is you passing out here." I'm not sure why I'm letting her pull me back into the waiting room, but I am. We sit down on the couch and she unwraps the sandwich, handing one half to me wrapped in a napkin.

I take it from her and dutifully shove a corner of it in my mouth, chewing automatically and not tasting anything. "Don't you have patients to bully?" I ask around a second bite. Food is the last thing I want, but I know I need nourishment and this is the only way to get it.

Holding up a cup of water for me to drink, she says: "Yes, but they're all asleep so it's no fun." That gets an attempted chuckle out of me and she smiles in response. "Finish that and I'll stop hovering for a while, okay?" I nod and pop the last bite in my mouth. Now we'll just have to wait and see if it stays down this time. "It seems to be going well," she remarks cautiously, watching me like a hawk for any signs of my previous hysteria.

The over-processed wheat bread sticks in my throat as I try to answer. "Yeah." I want to talk about this and don't want to talk about it. "He... he's still strong and relatively healthy," at least physically. "So I know his chances are good." I start playing with the styrofoam cup in my hands; pulling small pieces off the edge and letting them fall on the surface of the water inside. "The surgery's the easy part, it's the recovery that will be rough." Understatement of the year there. Attitude is a crucial part in any patient's road back to health. Can anyone fully recover from such a physical trauma if his overwhelming desire is to stop living? The bits of white plastic are bobbing on the water in the cup and I realize I'm shaking again. Martha's arm comes around my shoulders as she sits down on the couch next to me.

My stomach is rolling again and I desperately don't want a repeat of my earlier bout of vomiting. "It's okay," she whispers in my ear, "it'll be fine." I take deep breaths and try to calm both my stomach and my nerves. "That's it, just breathe; you'll be fine." Easy for you to say.

I push Martha away gently and lean my forearms on my knees, rubbing my face to erase the tears that have started again. God, I'm sick to death of always being the strong one in this relationship. With all the shit I've been through over the last seventeen years, why aren't I the one who's in an operating room right now? For all of his intelligence and education, Mulder can still be blind to my weakness. Oh, he can see my pain all right. He sees it and tries to take it upon himself as just another tragedy he has caused me, just another reason to blame himself for my suffering.

The sound of a throat clearing distracts me from my wallowing and I look up to see Walter's wide frame filling the doorway. His arms are filled with three boxes: the one's I saw on the table in Mulder's apartment. I hide my face behind my hands again. I don't know if I'm ready to do this. "Dana?" Walter's voice is quiet and very worried. I guess I don't have a choice now, I have to do this. I don't look up, but I hear his heavy footsteps coming nearer and the dip of the cushions to my left as he sits down. At the same time, my right side is raised as Martha gets up and makes her exit.

"What did you find?" I ask, letting my hands fall to dangle between my knees. I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the floor between my feet, not yet ready to face my superior and friend.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn and place his cargo on the couch next to him, then leaning forward to mimic my position. "So far, there is no evidence that it is anything other than what it appears to be." His voice is muffled by his own hands as he rubs his face wearily. I almost chuckle at his stilted phrasing; he knows I don't want to hear the words. "The only prints we could find were his, yours, the paramedics' and the landlady's."

I'm surprised at how disappointed I feel. Only now do I realize that I was still holding out some hope that Mulder had not done this to himself, that he would never hurt me like this. I feel the tears threaten again and I try to compose myself. "What's in the boxes?" My voice is tight and watery, but I don't really care anymore.

I feel Walter move next to me; hear the sounds of cardboard and paper rustling. "I don't know, I only opened one. I can show it to you later, but I think you should open this one first." A plain brown shoebox appears before my eyes, firmly clutched in his hand. I lean back on the couch wrapping my hands around my middle. I can't do this. This was his last message to me and I don't want to hear it because he is not going anywhere. "Or you can wait..." Walter starts to pull his hand away and I lean forward, grabbing the box and setting it on my lap. Curiosity and anger war for dominance in my brain and my heart. By opening this package and reading the letter on top, am I giving in? Am I letting him win?

The envelope on the lid is blank except for my name written in his familiar messy penmanship. Running my hand over it, I can feel a few small bumps on the surface where the paper had gotten wet, causing the fibers to swell. I wonder if those are from his tears. "When he wakes up after surgery, which would be better for him to hear: that I opened the box or that I didn't?" I know I'm trying to reassure myself that there will be an 'after' and I know Walter understands.

I keep brushing my fingers over the envelope, listening to the reassuring sounds of Walter's breathing, waiting for him to respond. "I think..." he begins hesitantly, "that it might help you understand his state of mind better. So when you two talk about what happened, you will have a more sound frame of reference." He sighs and I listen to the change in pitch and volume as he runs his hands over his face again.

His awkward speech almost makes me smile. "Whose recommendation is that: the Deputy Director or the friend?" He makes an attempt at a chuckle and clears his throat.

"Both," he responds. "No matter how well I think I know him, I still need all the help I can to actually understand him." The last few words are louder in my ear and I think he must be facing me. I keep my gaze focused on the box in my lap. "But you've always understood him, Dana."

I swallow a sob at the thought that Walter's observation may no longer be true. "I always thought I did. But if he can do this, then maybe you're wrong, maybe I never really understood him at all." Mulder was always stronger than this and I still can't comprehend why he believed this was the only way out. 'I can't comprehend.' I guess I just answered my question right there. "No, Walter, I don't think I understood him." That realization brings tears to my eyes again and I feel a strong arm snake gently around my shoulders. Resting my head on his chest, I allow myself few tears, but only a few. The end of something as special and precious as what Mulder and I have shared deserves to be mourned.

To his credit, he offers no empty reassurances or platitudes -- he simply holds me and runs his hand up and down my arm gently. I don't think I could list all the different emotions rolling through me right now. Fear, anger, sorrow, anxiety, hope, confusion, love. Betrayal. The trust and love and communion that Mulder and I shared has been betrayed by the very man who engendered all those feelings in me. How could he do this to me? "I don't understand," I whimper into Walter's shirt front. "I honestly don't understand." The grip on me tightens slightly and as I work on shutting off the last of my tears.

"Then maybe reading this will help," he says, lightly placing his fingers on the lid. "But he wanted you to have this as a reminder. Since he's not going away, you can leave it unopened if you want." He sounds certain of what he says. I wish I shared that certainty. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I straighten up and pull away from the comforting surety of Walter's embrace. Clearing his throat, he starts to speak but much more hesitantly than before. "I also..." he sighs, "I also found this. It was with the suit that he'd set out." Placing his fisted hand in front of me, he uncurls his fingers to reveal a large gold band in his palm.

Mulder's wedding ring. I thought it was gone forever and he'd had it all the time. In the rare down time I had during my search for him, I scoured our front yard looking for it. He had thrown it at me after our last argument, the coup de grace after verbally assaulting me for hours. My control had never wavered; for days I remained dry eyed and calm, believing that everything would be all right if I could just find his damned ring. I never did, and the thought that it had disappeared finally made me break down, sobbing for hours in the middle of our lonely bed. He'd had it all along, the bastard.

My jaw hurts and I realize I have my teeth clenched. I make no move to pluck the ring out of Walter's palm; I'm not sure I want it anymore. I hear him sigh again as he closes his hand around it. I stop him, placing my hand on his and he unclenches his fist. The metal is warm and familiar -- the plain band worn and scuffed from a decade's wear. Just like its companion I still wear on my left hand; that I will wear for the rest of my life. I study the inside of the ring for the first time since I put it on his finger ten years ago. 'In Love I have found Truth - 9/9/99' Slipping the band over my thumb, I clench my fist and feel the edge of the ring bite into my hand.

I need time to think now, time to decide what to do. I hear Walter's quiet voice in my ear. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee, would you like some?"

Walter and I are alike in so many ways: we both value our control above all else and we both hate our own weaknesses. He understands my need for space and gives it to me without asking and without making me ask him to leave. I can't say the words, but I hope my choked 'Yes, please.' will convey my gratitude. His look tells me my message has been heard and he gives me a small smile, squeezes my shoulder quickly, and is gone.

Nothing but me and this ring and Mulder's parting gift. I don't want to open it, I want to give it back to him and let me tell him what he has to say. Actually, I want to walk into his hospital room, throw the damn thing in is face and scream: "Keep it, you selfish son of a bitch! If you have something to tell me, do it to my face!" Of course, I don't think this method of treatment would be recommended by most mental health professionals, but it sure as hell would do my mental health some good. So, I'll open it, read what he wanted his last words to me to be, and hope I can find some clue as to how to help him during his recovery.

Now I just have to work up the courage to make my hands follow my mind's instructions.

Just lift the lid and look inside.

Tear open the envelope and read his letter.

Why am I not doing it?

I can hear Mulder's voice in my head, teasing me into action with the phrase that has become our version of 'double dog dare'. "What are you, Scully, yellah or somthin'?"

"Bite me, Mulder," I mumble as I start to pull the envelope off the top of the box. It's secured with only a small piece of tape and comes away easily. Running my fingers over the letters of my name, I wonder what exactly Mulder was thinking when he addressed this. I still can't understand why he has done this to me. I wonder if there are any answers in here at all or just more questions. Wouldn't that be typical?

Closing my eyes and breathing deep, I pull open the flap and remove the letter inside. Without unfolding it, I can tell there is only one sheet of paper. Does he have so little he wants to tell me? Another stabbing pain goes through my chest, the familiar feeling of betrayal. The paper is plain white -- no lines, no decorations. Only the faint mark of his words on the other side mar the pristine surface.

The ridges in the paper are like Braille, and I close my eyes and try to decipher their meaning. But I know there is only one way I'll be able find out what he has to say. Keeping my eyes shut, I unfold the note and run my fingers over the groves of his penmanship. Maybe I can just sit here a while and the words will find their way to my brain by osmosis. Now who's the one that believes in Extreme Possibilities, Mulder?

Another breath and I'll be ready to face this. Opening my eyes, I see the words swim slightly and I blink back tears. The print on the paper is small and neat, unlike his usual scrawl. He obviously wants to make sure I can understand each word.

Okay, Mulder, talk to me.

"Scully,

Please don't hate me.

I know how upset this will make you, but I need to stop hurting and this is the only way left. Because  
not only is the pain mine, but I have made it yours as well. You have suffered for me and because of me  
for too long now and I have finally realized that the only person who can end both our nightmares is me.

For the last 17 years, you have been everything to me: partner, friend, companion, therapist, lover,  
wife... Salvation.

You really have saved me -- not only my life, but my heart and soul as well. The ultimate price you have  
paid for my rescue has always been too high, but I was far too selfish to let you go. If I had just  
been able to end it earlier, just think how much better your life would be. I often dream of your  
children that should have been: smart and strong with their mother's unfathomable blue eyes. I can see  
them, playing with their Aunt Melissa; living a safe and normal life, far removed from the insanity that  
is the life you have lived with me. You would have been such a wonderful mother, Scully. I am more  
sorry for the loss of those sons and daughters you can never have than for anything else.

Please forgive me for taking that joy from you.

No one should have to shoulder the responsibility for another person's happiness, heath, sanity, and  
career. Yet that is the burden I saddled you with for almost two decades. If there is a God, I hope He  
will forgive me for what I have done to you over the years. I know I cannot.

That terrible argument we had the last time I saw you keeps replaying in my mind. I know it hurt you, but  
I believe what I said about Melissa Rydell. You see, if she is my soulmate, that means that yours is still  
out there. Now you are free to find him, and I know he will love you the way you deserve to be loved.  
His love will be generous and giving, not selfish and consuming as mine has been. But I know you love me,  
Scully -- it is the one thing that I have never doubted. The knowledge of your love has been the  
only thing that has kept me going over the last few months. Hell, the last ten years. You have made me  
happier than I had ever thought possible; you brought me joy. Now it is time for you to find that same  
joy.

I am sorry, _so_ sorry, for the pain you have endured because of me, and the pain of what I have done now  
will cause you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me -- and if I can, I will watch over you.

Always remember that I loved you more than anyone; that I will love you forever.

Be happy, Scully.

Mulder"

I can't breathe. I can't think. 'Now you are free'? Dammit, Mulder, why the hell would I want to be 'free' -- especially in this manner? You stupid, blind fool.

I will not let myself cry, but I can't stop the agonized moan that escapes my throat. My hands are on my face, trying to desperately muffle the sounds of my keening. I clasp them both over my mouth, so hard that I cut my lip and taste blood. Where's the note? I can't see a thing through my waterlogged eyes, so I wipe them with the hem of my scrubs.

There, on the floor under the table. The cracking sound of my knees hitting the tile makes me think I should be in pain. I don't feel anything. Pulling the paper off the floor, I gently dust off the dirt, smoothing the creases where I held it too tightly. I press it to my chest -- Mulder's words as close to my heart as I can physically get them -- and sit down, bringing my knees up and resting my forehead on them.

As I rock back and forth on the cold floor, I finally let the tears flow. They run over my hands; over the letter I clutch like a life preserver, smearing what may be my husband's final words to me. And I don't care, because I only know one thing:

If he dies, I can never be happy again.

END


End file.
